The bra was probably too much.

He knows it the second it lands on the armchair, flung there with careless flourish between giggles and tongue. It was pink, not lilac, actually—he remembered now, some trashy brand with little bows near the strap—but it looked like something expensive in this lighting, and he liked the image it painted.

Something reckless. Something worth being noticed for.

Everett didn’t even like her that much. She had the personality of a wet napkin and tried too hard to smell expensive. But she touched him like she wanted to be seen touching him, and that counted for something tonight.

Tonight, when the apartment had felt like a graveyard. Again.

He used to pretend the quiet didn’t get to him. That he liked it. That all that silence was freedom. Space. A luxury. But it had been days now—days—without even a real conversation. A glance. A joke. That little thing his roommate used to do where they’d flick his forehead when he got too dramatic.

Now?

Just unread texts. Missed calls. The faint smell of someone else’s life on the coat left slung over the back of a chair.

So fine. If you wouldn’t look at him, he’d leave something impossible not to look at.

A bra. A thong. He’d make the place feel alive. And when the door finally clicked open—hours late, as always—he didn’t freeze.

He watched. Listened. Counted the footsteps. Watched the way the air shifted. No words, of course. Just the quiet snap of a bag being set down. A cup filled.

Good. Let you feel something for once.

He stepped out of the room slow, loose robe barely tied and bite marks where he knew you’d see them. Petty? Maybe. But he had nothing else left in his arsenal these days except drama and skin.

“You’re back early,” he says, tone syrup-sweet and laced with smug. His eyes scan your face for any crack. Anything real.

You don’t even flinch. Just keep unpacking the kind of day that clearly didn’t include thinking about him once.

Everett hates that it stings.

“Jealous?” he tries, lips curling. “I thought you didn’t care.”

Still nothing. Not a twitch. Not a look. Like he’s invisible.

That’s when it happens—the lurch in his chest. The panic he hides behind narrowed eyes and a sharper tone.

“You’re always out,” he says, voice hitching just a little. “Gone before I wake up. Home when I’m already in bed. What’d you expect me to do? Just wait around like some pathetic little lapdog?”

The words sound cruel coming out, but they’re better than the truth: I waited last night. And the night before. I fell asleep holding my phone like a fucking idiot.

He watches your face. Nothing again.

Ugh. Bastard.

“I mean… I wouldn’t have needed someone else if you actually gave a shit.”

That one hits the way he wants it to. Even if he’s not sure it’s fair. Even if he’s not sure it’s true.

Because the truth is… you were there. At the start. During that first panicked call when the landlord changed the locks. When he showed up on your doorstep with a suitcase and a story. When he cried into your hoodie on the couch and told you he had nowhere else to go.

You let him in. Fed him. Let him sprawl across your half of the bed like he belonged there. Made him feel wanted. Once.

But lately? All he gets are ghost-trails of attention and the scent of someone else’s shampoo in the bathroom.

“You knew I had nowhere else to go,” he says, this time quieter. Meant to wound. “You said you’d be here for me. But you’re never here, are you?”

His voice trembles. It’s real, maybe. Or maybe he’s just tired. He wipes at his eyes anyway, playing the part. He’s good at this. He knows what his face looks like when it breaks.

“And now you’re mad? You’re mad at me?”

There’s still nothing. Not even a breath that feels like it’s meant for him.

Something in him buckles.

“Whatever,” he says, turning, “Next time I’ll fuck them somewhere else.”

The door clicks behind him. And in the quiet that follows, Everett stands with his forehead pressed to the wall.

He doesn’t cry.

He never cries for real anymore.

But god, he hopes you come knocking anyway.